CHAPTER IIITHE DEADLY FOEHN
Nextday, while old Humphreys remained in his invalid chair to write some business letters to his agents in the Near East, and Doctor Feng had a match at curling, I took “The Little Lady” out upon the other side of the deep valley to the popular winter sports resort at Wengen, which lies up the mountain on the opposite side of the valley. We lunched at the splendid Regina Hotel, where every one goes, and afterwards took some snap-shots. Later we took the train up to the Schiedegg and came down on our skis, a glorious run back to Wengen, the snow conditions being perfect. In everything she was interested, admiring the scenery and thoroughly enjoying the run, until we returned in the darkness up the mountain side again to Mürren.
I had come to the conclusion that Mrs. Audley had been a London business girl, for she told me she knew shorthand and typewriting, and she was evidently familiar with business affairs. The old invalid had become even more interested in her. He studied her as the type of the modern girl and shecertainly was always bright and vivacious when with us. Dr. Feng, however, though he was invariably polite to her, seemed to have become, for some reason, decidedly antagonistic. It is true the position was decidedly unconventional and irregular, but I could not reconcile his present attitude with his earlier and very obvious liking for Mrs. Audley. He now disagreed utterly with my quixotic offer to look after her and did not hesitate to say so.
“You are playing with fire,” he declared. “You are both young and she is a very pretty girl. The best thing you can do will be to clear out.”
I laughed, of course, and told him I had only accepted this responsibility in order to help a man out of a difficulty.
He shook his head. “You don’t know either of them, and you don’t know what you may have let yourself in for.”
I wondered, naturally, whether he had been influenced by the arrival of the crystal claw, and asked him bluntly if this were the case.
“Not at all,” he assured me. “The crystal claw has nothing whatever to do with it.”
In spite of all he said I would not take his advice. In the headstrong way of youth I put him down as a thoroughly conventional old fogey, a survival of the Victorian era when girls were compelled to go about with chaperons and the smoking of a cigarette wasa vice to be indulged only in the strictest privacy. So Mrs. Audley and I continued to enjoy ourselves, skating each morning on the rink and skiing together in the afternoon over the freshly fallen snow.
With a view to throwing additional light on the mystery of the crystal claw I tried as delicately as I could to “pump” her about her father. But it was evident she knew little or nothing beyond what she had told me. “He was a naval officer on the China Station for many years,” seemed to sum it all up and I wondered whether, for some reason I could not divine, further knowledge had been deliberately withheld from her. Of Eastern political affairs she obviously knew nothing.
Of her husband she said little, though I saw she was devoted to him.
“When we get back, Stanley and I hope to get a flat at Hampstead,” she said one day when we were resting after a swift run on skis close to the Half-way House—which is on the electric railway line which runs from Mürren along the edge of the precipice, before one changes into the rack-railway to descend to the valley.
That night at dinner there was a strange incident. Mrs. Audley came down in a gown which was the envy of many girls in the hotel. It was made of ciré tissue, and the yoke and hem were of silver lace. The front panel was ornamented with pin tucks andfinished with a chou of flowers. It was a charming frock. On her breast the crystal claw winked and blazed in the light of the lamps.
Old Humphreys, contrary to his usual custom, had come into the dining room for dinner and was seated in his wheeled chair at the same table as Mrs. Audley, Dr. Feng and myself.
I shall never forget the look that came over his face when he caught sight of the crystal claw! Rage, fear and amazement mingled together until the old man looked positively demoniacal. Luckily, Mrs. Audley was talking to Dr. Feng and neither of them noticed him.
It was a moment or two before the old invalid could control himself. Then his face resumed its usual expression. But I had caught a glimpse of the hell that, for a brief moment, must have raged in the old man’s mind and once again the crystal claw seemed to be associated with something sinister and dangerous.
“That’s a pretty new brooch you have, Mrs. Audley,” said the old fellow in a grating voice which showed that even now he had hardly recovered himself.
“Yes,” she laughed merrily, “isn’t it sweet? It came by post, sent to me from Pekin. I haven’t any idea who sent it for there was no name. It has been forwarded from London, and is no doubt a weddingpresent from somebody who has forgotten to enclose a card.” And she turned over the crystal claw so that he could admire it.
Afterwards we crossed the snowy road to the Kürhaus, where in the spacious ball-room we danced together. She also danced with two or three other admiring partners. Old Mr. Humphreys wheeled his chair into the dancing room as was his habit each evening. It was pathetic to see the grey-haired thin-faced man who seemed so active in every other sense, deprived of the power of locomotion. When he left his chair he managed to hobble along and with great difficulty up the stairs with the aid of rubber-capped sticks. Mostly, however, the porters carried his chair upstairs to the first floor and he wheeled himself along the corridor to his room.
On the following morning, according to arrangements made over-night, we started at nine o’clock and taking with us John, the smart, ever-smiling guide, we started out on our skis to ascend the Schwarzbirg, nine thousand feet high, by way of the Bielen-Lücke. The ascent we found extremely interesting, but the weather, even when we started, was grey and threatening. Now and then snow clouds drifted quickly across, and that dangerous and mysterious Alpine wind, the Foehn, ever and anon grew gusty. It was clear a storm was threatening.
“A little blizzard, perhaps,” remarked the slim,agile John, in his soft English, as he slid along over the snow.
Weather conditions in the Alps change with every moment. A blizzard may succeed brilliant sunshine within five minutes—a blizzard that whips the face with its icy blast, piles snow deep, and freezes one to the marrow. In the glacier regions of the higher Alps, the weather cannot be depended upon for a few minutes together.
Thelma, that day, wore the ski kit in which I had first seen her—the Fair Isle jazzy patterned jersey, and over it the short little wind-proof jacket trimmed with fur, and her corduroy breeches and stockings. It was in every way serviceable.
Presently when she had, to my surprise, executed what is known as an “open Christiania,” and we were skiing together across a great plateau of snow far above the tree-line, with John fifty yards ahead of us, she suddenly exclaimed—
“Do you know, Mr. Yelverton, I’ve heard nothing from Stanley except a telegram sent from Victoria at six o’clock on Sunday night, announcing his arrival. I’ve wired, but I’ve got no reply. I’m worried about him, but I don’t want to bother you.”
“That’s curious,” I remarked. “To where have you sent your wire?”
“To his office in Westminster.”
“Well, you ought to have had a reply. But nevermind,” I said. “He’s due back tomorrow night. We’ll go down to Lauterbrunnen and meet him—eh?”
The sky had suddenly become darkened and a strong tearing wind had sprung up. We had left the plateau and upon our skis were following John “herring-boning” up the side of the mountain. When one starts “herring-boning” one faces the incline and points the skis outwards at a considerable angle to each other—then the slope can be mounted by lifting the skis forward alternately and placing them in the snow on the inner edges, the angle between them remaining the same.
It was a steep slope, so we made wider angles between our skis to prevent them slipping backwards.
We were lurching heavily from side to side in order to throw the weight of one ski while lifting the other, when John suddenly shrieked the warning, “Achtung!”
Next second I heard a soft hissing sound overhead, then a loud rumbling which increased to thunder. I instinctively seized Mrs. Audley. The next moment we were struck violently in the back, covered by a blanket of snow, and hurled down the mountain side amid an avalanche of snow, stones and rocks.
When, very slowly, I awakened to a sense of things about me, I found I had bitten my tonguebadly and felt a severe pain at the back of my skull where, I suppose, I must have struck a rock. Mrs. Audley was still in my arms and unconscious, her bleeding face white as marble. Both of us were deeply imbedded in the snow, but our heads fortunately lay clear, otherwise we must certainly have been suffocated. The avalanche had swept us down, but as I had instinctively grasped my dainty companion, we had been held together.
Blood was flowing freely from the wound in my head, and Mrs. Audley’s face was cut and bleeding. As quickly as possible I disengaged myself from the heavy weight of snow upon me, and strove to rouse her from her swoon. The thought that she might be dead drove me well-nigh frantic.
I seized her by the shoulders and shook her violently. Then with trembling fingers I tore open her jacket, jersey and silk blouse, and bent my head to listen. Her heart was beating faintly.
My vacuum flask of hot tea was battered and broken but in an inside pocket I had, providentially, a small flask of brandy which was undamaged. I forced a few drops of the spirit between her pallid lips.
Her lips moved. A moment later she opened her big grey eyes and asked me in a whisper:
“Where am I?”
“You are safe,” I assured her, holding her in myarms. “Don’t worry. We’ll be out of this very soon.”
“But where are we?” she asked gazing around upon the snowy surroundings. “Where is John? Tell me!”
I told her briefly what had happened.
“But where is John?” she queried. “I hope he is all right. It was very foolish for us to venture up here after the warm Foehn of yesterday,—wasn’t it?”
“I expect John is all right,” I said. “He warned us, and no doubt took precautions.” Guides in the Alps seldom fail.
With difficulty we wriggled out of the snow and stood up. Even in our shaken condition we could not but admire the panorama of the Eiger, the Jungfrau and the Wetterhorn, across the darkening valley before us. But haste was imperative: the light was fading quickly and we were a long way from Mürren.
I had lost one of my skis, which had been torn from its strong Huitfeldt binding in our fall. Mrs. Audley’s, however, were intact, and we started to descend. She soon recovered in the keen Alpine air, and was able to help me, lame dog that I was. Repeatedly we gave the six shouts recognized as the regular Alpine distress call, but there was no reply.
It was quite dark when we struggled back, to findthat our guide, having happily escaped, had arrived before us and sent out a search-party. By shouts and flashing signals, this was soon recalled.
At the hotel they put Thelma to bed at once, while after the Swiss doctor had seen to my head, I sat in the bar recounting my experience and drinking a strong whiskey and soda.
Dr. Feng and Humphreys were both most eager to know the details of our adventure. But later the doctor said—
“I think you are very foolish, Yelverton! You ought never to have had anything to do with the bride, she will only bring trouble upon you. Humphreys agrees with me. You’re a young fool!”
“Probably I am,” I replied laughing! “I very nearly lost my life over it today.”
“You are a regular Don Quixote,” he said. “Well, I admire you after all. You would be a fine young fellow, if you were just a little more cautious.”
“Cautious!” I laughed, facing the old doctor, “I’m young. You are old. You weren’t cautious when you were my age, were you?”
“No,” he answered. “I suppose not—I suppose not.”
The night-mail train from Boulogne arrives at the little station at Lauterbrunnen each evening about five o’clock. The next afternoon thereforeMrs. Audley, who had quite recovered from her accident on the previous day, accompanied me down into the valley by the cable railway. She was all excitement, for her husband, before his departure, had promised to return by that train, and had, indeed, booked his sleeping-berth by it.
At last the train came slowly in from Interlaken, where the change is made from thewagon-lit. A number of hurrying English visitors descended but Stanley Audley was not among them.
Bitter disappointment was written upon the girl’s face.
“He must have missed the train at Victoria,” she declared.
“Well,” I said, “There is not another through train until tomorrow—unless he travels by Paris and Bâle.”
The station master, however, informed us that the service from Paris would not arrive till early next morning, so that we were compelled to reascend to Mürren.
Audley’s failure to telegraph or write to his wife, struck me as uncommonly strange.
While we were in the narrow little compartment of the cable railway, I ventured to put several questions to her concerning him. But she would give only evasive replies.
Next day she went to the little wood-built post officealone and despatched several telegrams to various addresses, but the replies she received gave no news of her husband. Evening came again, but Stanley Audley was not among the arrivals from London, though I was with Thelma on the arrival of the mountain train at Mürren station.
“I cannot make it out,” she said as we sped back to the hotel on our skis. “Surely he must be delayed. Perhaps he has telegraphed to me and the message has gone astray!”
“That may be,” I agreed in order to reassure her, but personally I felt much mystified.
Next day I telegraphed to the managing director of Gordon & Austin, the electrical engineers in George Street, Westminster, asking for news of Stanley Audley, and in response about five o’clock in the evening came a reply which read: “Stanley Audley is not employed by us and is unknown to us.”
I said nothing to Thelma, but finding Dr. Feng alone, showed him the telegram.
The old doctor grunted with dissatisfaction.
“Something wrong somewhere,” he remarked. “One should always be very careful of hotel acquaintances. I warned you at the time that you were indiscreet to offer to look after the bride of a man you don’t know.”
“I admit that! But the whole affair is very mysterious.He told me a deliberate lie when he said he was employed by Gordon & Austin.”
“Yes. He’s a mystery, and evidently not what he pretended to be. What does his wife think?”
“I haven’t shown her the telegram.”
“Don’t. Try and discover what you can from her.”
“You don’t seem to like her, Doctor,” I said bluntly.
“No. I don’t like either of them,” the old man admitted. “There’s too much mystery about the pair. I was discussing them with Humphreys this morning, and he agrees.”
“It is not Thelma’s fault,” I said.
“It may be. She evidently knows more about her husband than what she has told you.”
“Well, she’s told me nothing,” I replied.
“There you are! She is concealing the truth. Go and find out all you can. And don’t be indiscreet. Your present position is dangerous. Perhaps he’s left her deliberately and palmed her off upon you, hoping that you will both fall in love, and he can free himself of her at your expense. Such things are not unknown, remember!”
“I don’t believe it,” I declared. “I undertook a trust—foolishly if you like—and it is up to me to carry it out to the best of my ability.”
“Ah! my dear boy, your eyes are closed veryoften,” the old doctor said. “The lookers-on see most of the game, and I’ve seen one or two little things which show that your temporary bride is not adverse to a little secret flirtation.”
“How?” I asked quickly.
“Well, she’s on quite friendly terms with that young fellow, Harold Ruthen.”
“Ruthen!” I echoed. “I didn’t know they were acquainted. I’ve never seen them speak.”
“No, not when you are about,” replied the old man laughing. “But I’ve often seen them chatting together.”
This surprised me. Harold Ruthen was a rather foppish, fair-haired man about my own age, whose airs were of the superior type. His interest in Thelma had not escaped me, but I had never seen them speaking together. He was, I understood, an ex-officer, and he was a very good skater. But at first sight I had taken an instinctive dislike to him and, that he should have made Thelma’s acquaintance in secret, greatly annoyed me.
I felt myself responsible to Stanley Audley, even if he had deceived me.
Now I found myself in a difficulty. Only at that moment I recollected how, on the morning before Thelma’s husband had announced his forced return to London, I had seen Ruthen walking with the doctor up a narrow path with high snow-banks closeto the hotel. They were deep in conversation, and old Feng seemed to be impressing some point upon Ruthen while he listened very attentively.
Did Dr. Feng know more than he admitted?
I must say that I did not like his hostile attitude towards the newly wedded pair, an attitude which now seemed to be shared by old Mr. Humphreys.
That night, when Thelma came to table, she was wearing a charming gown of almond green, that we had not seen before. Though she looked beautiful, her face was more serious than usual, and I suspected that I saw traces of tears.
As we sat together I fell to wondering who was Stanley Audley? Why had he deceived his young wife, and then deserted her, leaving her in my charge?
Had I fallen into a clever trap?